


14,000,604

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Avengers: Endgame - Fandom, Avengers: Infinity War - Fandom, Doctor Strange (2016), Endgame - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, infinity war - Fandom
Genre: (no one may read this but still I persist), Angst, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Master of the Mystic Arts, What if?, the New York Sanctum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: A sequel of sorts to ‘Friday in the Park with Stephen’--exploring the emotional and spiritual toll that Stephen's search for that one path to victory over Thanos wreaks upon him. A familiar face brings him the chance for much needed, though unexpected, comfort.Hope Collins had been seeing the very charming, somewhat mysterious “teacher” Stephen Strange for several weeks, when she is shocked to see him on CNN, battling aliens in the midst of Greenwich Village.  By the following day, Earth has been changed forever by The Snap, and New York City has become a smoldering shell of its former self. Hoping for answers that those in authority had yet to provide and desperate to learn if Stephen is safe—or even alive—she dares a trip on foot from Brooklyn to Bleecker Street. Praying with every step that he’ll be home when she comes calling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ['Friday in the Park with Stephen'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711205) by [BeautifullyObsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed). 
  * Inspired by [Physician, Heal Thyself](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348654) by [BeautifullyObsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed). 



Bleecker Street appeared exactly like the rest of the city; way too few people traversing the sidewalks, and those few scurrying by so quickly that Hope surmised they must be fearful of being found out in the open. Those that met her gaze with glassy, shell-shocked eyes appeared as woebegone as she felt. And although there seemed less signs of looting here as in the other neighborhoods she had passed through since she’d left Brooklyn, very few of the business were open. The silence around her was eerie and depressing, despite the bright afternoon sunshine that warmed the air. 

Though the battle that had raged here days before had played out around the corner on Sullivan Street, there remained plenty of collateral damage here as well. Chunks of stone fallen from surrounding buildings, twisted metal and shattered glass, ominous scorching where fires had eventually burned themselves out. So much wreckage that Hope easily concluded that in the time between the attack and the shocking, random disappearance of so many people, any cleanup crews had accomplished very little. The bright orange barriers that had been set up on Sullivan to keep gawkers from exploring the main battle area, remained in place. Added to that, Hope saw plenty of signs that echoed what had happened all across the city. Several smashed vehicles, including a UPS delivery truck and a city bus, lined the length of Bleecker Street, clearly indicating that their drivers had vanished just as suddenly as half the city’s population. The front of one car stood atop a knocked over fire hydrant, the flow of water issuing from the hydrant reduced to a mere trickle, indicating that the water pressure here—like that back home in her apartment building–-was nearly nonexistent. A downed streetlight canted at a precarious angle above a taxi whose crumpled front end seemed to be the only thing keeping the pole from toppling over onto the street.

Yet 177A Bleecker seemed untouched, impervious to the destruction around it, as though it had weathered both the chaos of alien battle and human disaster effortlessly. _Like magic, of course_ , Hope told herself, hastening to the short run of stairs before the Sanctum’s beckoning double doors, eager for the sanctuary she longed to find there. _Please be here_ , she whispered, bracing herself for disappointment nonetheless. _Please, Stephen, be here and safe_ _behind these doors_.

Taking a deep breath, she wrapped on one door. _Please…please…please_ , the refrain playing through her mind, while she tried to picture him on the other side, praying for the hundredth time that he had survived, wondering if he would feel as relieved to see her as she expected to feel upon seeing him. When no answer came, she knocked ever harder; softly at first, and then with growing fervor, repeating aloud her desperate hope like a mantra. “Please, Stephen, please. Please be here. Please…let me in…I…I have no place else to go…”

The door swung inward all on its own, and although Hope thought to find him or at least someone else on the other side, there was only silence as she glimpsed the foyer for the first time, and beyond that a grand staircase dominating her view. She stepped over the threshold cautiously, her heart thumping harder with anticipation. “Hello…is there anyone…is there anyone here?” she called out, encouraged by the sight of a small fire burning in a hearth well off to her right. “Hello, please,” she asked louder this time, her voice growing stronger as she lingered in place, waiting for permission to go further, “I’m looking for Stephen…Stephen Strange?” The door swung shut behind her of its own volition, causing her to take several steps forward, until she stopped near the base of the stairs.

“Hope.” His smooth, gentle voice echoed in the expanse of the hall, though she looked up immediately anyway, _feeling_ him there above her as much as hearing him from where he stood on the wide landing atop the staircase. Since seeing him on the news, she had been picturing him in the same peculiar garb he’d been wearing mid-battle, but Stephen was dressed as casually as in the score of times they’d spent together since they had first met in Washington Square Park. A simple faded gray tee and stone-washed jeans, along with a dark gray cardigan. Nothing to mark him as unusual—but for the red cape that hovered at his side. Hope had only a moment to register that fantastical image, and then the cumulative effect of the duress she’d experienced since her roommate Trish, and Trish’s boyfriend, Kyle, had vanished before her eyes–-and this day’s difficult journey–-caused the strength in her legs to give out. Without warning her knees buckled, and a red blur zipped down the stairs to catch her before she hit the floor. Somehow its embrace was light but firm, and by some instinct she felt she could trust it entirely. Perhaps because she knew it was Stephen’s, and had seen it do practically the same for him on tv—or more so because it enveloped her in his familiar scent, a mix of the rich, dark coffee which she’d seen him favor the few times they had breakfasted together, along with something clean and citrusy, and a musky amber that had to come from his cologne or aftershave. Whatever the case, she felt safe for the first time since this nightmare began. 

Stephen rushed down, taking two steps at a time to reach her where the cape had her cradled. Mute with astonishment, she remained quite still as he slipped his arms beneath her back and legs; quietly fascinated, Hope watched him dismiss the flying garment _sotto voce_ , “Thank you. I’ve got her now.” With nary a ripple, it allowed Stephen to ease her from its grasp, and then drew away as Stephen carried her over to a long settee tucked into an alcove to the left of the stairs, where he sat beside her after he set her down.

The warmth and concern in his beautiful, mercurial eyes had Hope melting a little, and she melted further when he laid his hand against her cheek and traced her cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m so glad that you’re here…so relieved that you survived,” he husked, and she only nodded, too overcome with relief herself to reply rationally just yet. “C’mere, honey,” he told her, pulling her into his arms, so that she tucked her head in the crook of his neck.

“I was afraid you’d be gone too,” she murmured, soothed and sheltered by his embrace, “I tried calling you at least a dozen times, but I couldn’t get through to even leave a message…and then the electricity went out and my battery died, and…and I couldn’t stay cooped up at my place anymore. I needed to know…” Her voice hitched as she fended off tears, “…I needed to know, one way or another…if…if I’d lost you too…” She pressed a lingering kiss on the side of his neck, savoring the perfect warmth of his skin. 

And how perfectly gentle he was, in consolation, “I know, sweetheart…I know it’s been a nightmare.” Stephen sighed and kissed the top of her head, adding cryptically, “And I swear I’m working on a way to set everything to rights again.”

Puzzled, Hope moved so she could see his face, observing for the first time the toll which the events of the past several days had taken upon him. He looked tired, worn as though he hadn’t slept since well before the chaos that had descended on the city. He bore a gash on one cheek, and several more less serious looking cuts on the other, and though Hope could tell they were healing, she couldn’t restrain the urge to run her fingertips upon them—to offer him some share of the tenderness welling up inside her. First the set on his forehead, and then the ones upon his right cheek. Mighty practitioner of magic, he had been revealed to be, and a staunch defender of the city and the planet—secrets which she recognized he had kept from her for only the best of reasons—but the good, flesh and blood man whom she had already learned to care deeply for was her sole concern.

“Oh, Stephen,” she began, “You were all over the news…you and the others. They said you were a doctor, they talked about your accident and…and your hands.” Hope bowed her head and blinked back tears, for she knew the subject was his most sensitive, and understood now exactly why he chose not to speak of it. 

“I would have told you eventually, Hope,” he revealed, “And please–-don’t think that I didn’t because don’t trust you…”

She looked back to him, wearing a wee smile despite the tears that were ever ready to fall since life had changed in an instant, “I know…of course I know that.” She lifted his right hand close and laid her lips on the backs of his fingers, then met his eyes again, “I already trusted that you’d tell me when our timing was right…”

“And here we are at last,” he averred, smiling back just enough to bring forth those dear crinkles of smile lines beside his eyes.

“At last,” Hope echoed, and then he was cupping her face in his sure, strong, irresistible hands, and _finally_ kissing her, with a patience and a tenderness that belied the gravity of their situation.

Reluctantly he broke their kiss so they could catch their breath, and then rested his forehead against hers; his mouth remained close enough for her to feel his words on her own lips, “I _needed_ this. You have no idea how long I’ve been needing this.”

“ _Whatever_ you need, Stephen.” _My help, my heart, even my soul,_ she thought, _just let me stay with you, let_ me _be what you need_. She brushed her open mouth on his, weak with wanting to ease the burden that so obviously weighed upon him. 

He hummed his appreciation, and told her, “That’s why I came back here, honey. Because I need to rest a bit before the final act plays out. To brace myself for what’s to come. And because I’m needing… _you_.” **…**

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**_"...because I'm needing...you..."_**

Though Hope had longed to have him lay claim to her that way, it still stunned her to hear Stephen speak it so plainly. One of the things that had drawn her to him from their first conversations on that picture perfect spring day just shy of two months back, had been his lack of artifice. An absolutely unexpected treat to find in a man—to find in a _gentleman_ —of his age, intelligence, and sophistication. Not that she had much experience with “older” men, of course, but she’d known from the start that he was different, and wonderfully rare. And though he held his personal information close to the vest and she had sensed some compelling secrets beneath his easy charm, Stephen was not one to mince words—so that now she knew he _meant_ exactly what he’d said. He needed _her_. Judging by the solemn, haunted look he wore this day–-even when he’d smiled–-she could only hope she was up to the task. She nodded her understanding and spoke as plainly in reply, “I’m happy to help, Stephen. Just…please…tell me what I can do.”

His response, along with his very natural and slightly crooked smile, made her weak all over again, as he threaded his fingers through hers, “Hope…honey…you already have. Just by being here with me.”

* * *

“So—what are you then…a wizard…like…like in _Harry Potter_? And this building is like…like your Hogwarts?” Stephen had taken Hope by the hand and was leading her on a tour of his home. His _Sanctum_ , as he’d called it; she could hear the capital ‘s’ in his voice, impressing her with the reverence he held for it—and for all that it represented.

Stephen chuckled at her questions, leaving her glad to bring him even a little mirth. “Something like that—but on a much grander, far more serious scale…”

“But is it wizard or warlock,” she insisted, flashing him a pert little smile and enjoying the fact that he was sure to correct her.

He cocked a brow and answered firmly, though she felt his wry humor in every syllable he spoke, “Actually, the preferred title is ‘Master of the Mystic Arts’…”

“Master?” _How very…appropriate_ , she mused, considering how confident and coolly in control he had appeared when he had taken on those alien invaders. “Hmmmm. _Master_ Strange,” she teased him gently, “Has quite the air of authority about it.”

“Not when you say it like that,” he smirked, “Try again?” He toyed with some wisps that had fallen loose from the tortoiseshell clip that held up her hair, then left his fingertips to rest on the side of her neck.

His touch was cooler than her skin, but the shiver that ran though her stemmed from a mighty inappropriate image that flashed through her mind: lying beneath him, the room in half light, her arms draped around his neck as she teased him wickedly, “ _Mmmmmaster Strange…_ ”

“Hope?” Stephen’s eyes had widened, so that she feared he had somehow picked up on that thought. She just knew her face had flushed, confirmed when he asked, “Are you okay?”

She nodded rapidly, sputtering back, “I…um…sorry, I…it was a long walk over here…maybe…maybe you’ve got something cold…I…I could drink?”

“No sooner said than done,” he told her, and with a simple gesture of his hand, she found a frosty bottle of water in her grasp.

“Well, now you’re just showing off.” Hope dared to meet his eyes again and saw only his honest kindness there, with no indication that he had read her thoughts. _Thank goodness_. “But thank you…Master Strange.” Stephen smiled more fully and bowed his head in gracious acknowledgement. Hope cracked open the cap, raised the bottle like a toast to him, and took a long swallow.

* * *

They crossed paths with very few Adepts—as Stephen referred to them—while he showed her the first few floors of the Sanctum. Hope noted that while they were courteous to her, they were genuinely deferential towards Stephen. They moved along their tasks quietly, leaving him to his business—though he soon became preoccupied, and she could somehow _feel_ him take a silent account of the missing, with each remaining Adept that passed their way. That his heart was heavy with his responsibilities drew her heart to his even more; she slipped her arm through his, hoping in that small act to convey her deepening regard for him.

When the reached the base of the stairs leading to the fourth floor, Stephen stopped short. “How about we grab some lunch before we tackle the next level? There’s stuff up there fit to blow your mind, and I think you’ll enjoy the ride much better on a full stomach.”

Hope’s stomach had started to rumble about twenty minutes before—she’d wolfed down some granola before leaving her apartment that morning and had only eaten a couple of power bars on her trek over, and that was hours ago. “You know, I _am_ famished. But please tell me you’ve got something more substantial to offer than tofu and bean curd. I haven’t had a good, hot meal in days.”

“We have residents here from all over the world, Hope,” he explained, before a shadow of regret spread across his handsome features, “Well, we _did_ anyway…” His focus seemed directed inward, and whatever his thoughts were, Hope was sure they were part of what weighed so heavily upon him. Stephen visibly shook the gloom away, “We’ve got two kitchens here, and there’s plenty of international ingredients and dishes in our pantries.”

“Well then, lemme at ‘em,” she quipped, hoping to lighten the mood, “Which one’s closer?”

* * *

Hope took charge once they reached the kitchen, and after checking just what was in the pantry and refrigerator, settled on something simple, quick, and sure to be satisfying. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

Stephen approved. “The perfect comfort food,” he had smiled, though Hope saw well past his casual façade. _He’s way more than tired,_ she recognized, _way more than unsettled or worried or…anything…that any ordinary man would be feeling in the wake of all the crazy stuff that’s happened. No._ Hope’s mind and heart told her it was much more than that. That he was carrying some unique and heavy burden; that perhaps he held himself somehow responsible for the bafflingdisappearances, and that given his astonishing powers, he believed he had a duty to fix it all. Or that he needed to prevent something even worse from happening. “ _That’s why I came back here…_ ” he had told her, “ _…I need to rest a bit…to brace myself for what’s to come…_ ” Although she wouldn’t dream of pressing him for further information, she resolved again to give him all the support that she could.

“Alright,” she said, adopting her cheekiest demeanor, “I know you’re a real badass out there on the streets with aliens and what not—but _I’m_ the badass of sandwiches, so I’m leaving the soup to…”

True amusement lit his eyes and he hmmm’d in the deep of his throat—a sound that sent a sudden flush of heat through her belly. “You, uh…you think I’m a badass?” His grin this time was definitely more relaxed.

“Absolutely! Completely badass—and, um, if you don’t mind me saying, wickedly, _wickedly_ …masterful…” _And magnificent and heroic_ , she thought, though she didn’t add that, not wanting to gush like a silly, infatuated girl. Instead, Hope stepped closer, gave the perfect little sigh as she gazed up into those eyes that shamed stars for their brilliance—and slapped a can of tomato soup in his hand. “Add whole milk instead of water. It makes it creamier,” she instructed him, “And a dash of pepper, a couple sprinkles of parmesan, and some of that chopped basil sprinkled on top, towards the end.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mock-saluted, before grabbing a dishtowel from the countertop and flipping it over his shoulder before setting about his task.

Pleased to see that she had genuinely lightened his mood, Hope gathered her supplies, finding a sharp white cheddar and a pepper-jack she thought would do nicely together, and then settling on a crusty whole grain bread, sliced thin off the loaf so it would crisp quickly. They worked at the stovetop side by side, while the buttered bread sizzled in the frypan, and as Stephen stirred the pot of soup, he was humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar, reminding her that he was a walking encyclopedia of modern music lore. She hummed along when he reached the chorus—finally able to put a name to the tune–and thought that they didn’t sound half bad together. 

He set the table deftly, despite the tremors in his hands being the most severe she’d witnessed yet—surely the unspoken strain he labored under contributing to that. Once Hope flipped their sandwiches onto their plates, Stephen allowed her to take her seat, before joining her at table.

It was the first hot meal she’d had in over 48 hours, and she started in well, her appetite piqued by the aroma of their homey little feast. And as she had since childhood, Hope dunked her sandwich in her soup, which amused Stephen immensely, prompting him to do the same. Listening to him explain astral travel—how one could move in spirit with the speed of thought when necessary—fascinated her and soon enough Hope discovered how safe he made her feel. Safe in his company, safe in his world; safer than she ever could have expected after the grim, fearful days she had spent hiding in her apartment. She closed her eyes, lulled by Stephen’s smooth, deep voice, thinking she could be satisfied to stay in his Sanctum indefinitely—if that was something he could allow.

But when she opened her eyes, they fell upon her plate, and her new reality came crashing back upon her. Hope froze, holding the second half of her sandwich hovering above her bowl of soup.

She was staring at the smattering of crisp, brown crumbs left behind on her plate, and in a heartbeat, in the space of a single breath, the food in her mouth went devoid of flavor. No, not quite devoid, for there was flavor enough to make it hard to swallow–but she forced it down anyway. The flavor was like ash, like the color of the crumbs upon her plate; the color of the ash that had floated on the air as Trish and Kyle became nothing more than memories, ash that had faded to naught before her very eyes. “Oh god, oh god,” she whispered, dropping her sandwich back onto her plate, so she could cup her forehead in both hands.

“Hope…honey…what’s wrong?” Stephen’s voice, fraught with concern, should have been the anchor to ground her, but Hope was lost in recalling those moments in all their exquisitely painful detail. They’d been watching CNN, glued to the repeated footage from the day before, of the face-off featuring Earth’s defenders—and Hope had been gobsmacked to discover the man that she’d been seeing right there in the thick of it, demonstrating inexplicable powers, fighting beings out of some sci-fi movie in the company of no less than Iron Man himself. All the networks had created a compilation of cell phone recordings–-taken from a safe distance away, or from several floors above street level–-by ordinary citizens caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The film clip, less than ten minutes long cycled through twice with accompanying live commentary, and then the picture had reverted to a live shot of a female reporter standing in front of yellow caution tape at the corner of Sullivan and Bleecker Streets. She was recapping the known facts yet again, including the details of a similar incident in Scotland, with no new light to shed on the invasion that had seemed to end almost as abruptly as it had begun, when she raised her free hand up into the camera’s range. “What the hell…” she had begun, gaping as from her fingertips to her wrist and then up her arm, she appeared to be dissolving into flakes of ash; she was completely gone in only seconds, as her mike dropped to the ground with a thud, followed by the piercing whistle of feedback.

There came shouts of disbelief and distress from by-standers off camera, and then screaming as the shocking disappearance repeated multiple times, until the camera too dropped to street level and cut out. At the same time, from down on the street outside her apartment, Hope had heard the screeches of multiple sets of brakes and then a series of crashes which--she had figured out in retrospect--could only have been from cars whose drivers had disappeared similarly. CNN had switched back to their anchors, both of whom looked confused and frightened; the man had one hand cupped to his earpiece, while the woman was stuttering in shock, and then in a swirl of ash he was gone as well.

“No…Kyle…no!” Trish’s shout drew Hope’s attention to him; and Hope knew she would never forget his expression as she watched him fade away, looking like he’d somehow been betrayed, but not knowing who was to blame. Nor would she ever forget the fear in Trish’s voice calling her name or her roommate’s appearance of utter confusion as she lost solidity. Now Hope was remembering what it was like, waiting in silent horror for it to happen to her too; frozen in place, hand flat against her upper chest, feeling her heart race so hard that she wondered if it were possible for it to beat right out of her chest. She had lost track of how long she’d sat in her easy chair in front of a television that had gone to snow because there was no one around to monitor the outgoing broadcast. ****

The sounds of multiple explosions somewhere nearby had barely fazed her as she continued waiting for her own end, but the loudest—which she later learned was a helicopter slamming into a building dozens of streets away—finally brought her back to herself. The snow on her television had been replaced by a screen reading ‘ _We’re sorry, but we are currently experiencing technical_ _difficulties._ ’ She choked back a hysterical cry, and grabbed the remote control, searching for some explanation for what had just happened. Any live broadcasts were disrupted too; only the cable channels airing syndicated programming and the various movie channels were playing without interruption, clearly dumb and numb to the macabre spectacle playing out across the city.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” Hope sobbed, giving into the tears she been holding back for days; she had cried hard that first day, as daylight has turned to dusk, cried in fear and confusion, which turned to hopelessness once she had the presence of mind to try and call someone. She tried 911 just once, got the ‘all circuits busy’ message and realized that everyone left must be doing the same. Next she went through her list of contacts; almost all of those calls went straight to voice mail; she tried to sound calm, asking that friend or family member to call her as soon as they could so she would know they were safe. She concluded that this event was just more than the city—she began to wonder if it encompassed the whole country, and perhaps the entire world.

The one name which Hope had left untried, was the one which she had wanted to call the most—Stephen Strange. Her eyes had filled with tears again as they lingered over his name; his fate was left unknown as none of the cell phone footage showed the battle’s final resolution, but some eyewitness accounts claimed he had been somehow beamed aboard the alien ship before it shot upwards into the atmosphere. Hope hadn’t wanted to believe that; she had needed to think he was somewhere in the city, safe and whole and doing whatever it was… _whatever_ it was he did. She had resolved to wait a little longer before even trying his number, needing to cling to that rarified hope in order to get through the hours of night ahead for her.

"...I'm sorry...so, so sorry..." she repeated, sobbing hard as despair finally breached the walls that Hope had built between panic and reason. She remembered shuffling out onto the little stoop outside her third story apartment and seeing a dark velvet sky pierced with far away stars, thinking how immutable they were, impervious to the tragedies playing out on her isolated little world. She could smell fire burning somewhere, and prayed that it was none too close, while the periodic sirens that called out across the river only added to her sense of continuing disaster, rather than providing her the comfort of believing that Someone In Authority had matters well in hand. A little while after that, she'd found herself staring into the bathroom mirror, puffy-eyed and splotchy-skinned from crying, before she reached into the medicine cabinet for Trish's melatonin, and took two in the grim hope that she could escape into oblivious sleep for several hours.

But she only managed a broken sleep and dreams filled mostly with fear--except for one of Stephen, which had somehow given her such a sense of calm, of safety. that she _had_ to chance calling him when daylight came. She had tried several times throughout the morning, only to reach his voice mail. The sound of his voice on the outgoing message renewed her ache to see him in person--safe, whole, warm, alive. 

By that point, the major networks and news channels were back on the air, though everyone on them looked as shell shocked as Hope felt. They had begun to piece together details from all around the world; there had been a crazy, epic, otherworldly ground and air battle in the quiet nation of Wakanda, featuring a coterie of Avengers leading the charge on behalf of Earth. The toll of that battle was said to be at devastating cost in Wakandan lives, as well as resources--and the alien ground forces, along with their surviving spaceships, had withdrawn from the field almost as soon as the countless dissolutions into ash had begun. Whatever this was, whomever had inflicted this upon Earth, the general result had been the decimation of humanity, at a figure that was consistently close to fifty percent. All species of animals, sea life, and birds had been similarly affected, along with all plant life, and even insects.

"...so how am _I_ even still here..." she wept, swiping her tears away with her palms, and then--very like a forlorn child---using the heel of her hand to wipe across her nose. "Why them...why them and not me?"

Stephen had moved from his chair to her side the moment she had broken down, though she hadn't even been aware he had laid a gentle hand between her shoulders. He was rubbing her upper back softly, as naturally as people do when they are trying to give comfort "Sssssh, honey. I know. I know how hard it's been." He crouched down on one knee, resting his other palm lightly against her thigh, patiently offering the solace she so desperately needed, "You mustn't feel guilty, Hope. it was entirely random. The work of a madman. On an inconceivable, universal scale."

Weak with grief, she let her head hang low, answering with only a ragged sigh.

"And honestly," he continued quietly, "It's a gift to have you here with me right now." Stephen took one of her hands and ran his thumb back and forth along her knuckles, beginning to soothe her with touch, tone, and words. "A very unexpected bit of providence. One that confirms for me that I'm not entirely alone in a reality that's been..." His turn to sigh hard, while all the exhaustion he'd been trying to hide from her, revealed itself in just a few words, "...merciless...of late."

Hope looked to him at last, astonished at the naked pain in his eyes, pain mixed with a calm like the eye of a storm, and a wisdom that seemed ageless. _Who is this beautiful, stalwart man,_ she pondered, _and what more has happened to leave him so resigned and sad?_ Restored to her stronger self by his gentle, sincere sympathy, she took his face in her hands and kissed him softly, before leaning her forehead against his. "Tell me, Stephen--tell me what you can. How and why this has happened. And how _you_ are...somehow...someway...right in the middle of it all."

The look of relief and gratitude that softened his beguiling, careworn features, felt as though it would be imprinted on her heart forever.


	3. Chapter 3

**_"...you have to understand this: when it comes to saving you, or the kid, or the Time Stone, I will not hesitate to let either of you die. I can't--because the universe depends on it."_ **

Stephen Strange to Tony Stark, 2018

One of the most fundamental admonitions that was laid upon fledgling practitioners of the Mystic Arts was a simple yet critical one: magic must _never_ be used for personal gain, lest it rebound with unforeseen effects upon the user, or worse, unto innocents who may be loosely associated with the sorcerer or sorceress working such magic. Though his service in the Mystic Arts had been relatively brief (in “real” time anyway--not accounting for his time in the loop with Dormammu, and the equivalent of 1,500+ years spent searching for a timeline in which this reality was spared from Thanos’ psychotic plan to wipe out half of all life in the universe), Stephen Strange had already experienced such temptation, and had always thoroughly rejected it—for he not only knew that such selfish indulgences could wreak karmic havoc, but they would also be a violation of his lifelong oath as a physician to do no harm, were he to bring about such unintended consequences. He was aware of Jonathan Pangborn’s use of magic to channel other dimensional energy into his own body so that he could walk again, but that was far different from using magical manipulation to make a profit, or advance one’s career, or win to oneself influence, friends, or lovers—and thus, Stephen considered long and well if there might be detrimental ramifications before he concluded that _that_ particular ban did not apply to him or his unique situation.

In scrutinizing his motivation, and by searching his very soul, he determined that _this_ use of magic was _absolutely_ necessary if he was to succeed in his quest—for in searching through millions of possible outcomes for the slim path to victory, he was also experiencing a countless share of them himself. Though his body remained on Titan in a time trance, the sheer physical exhaustion from participating in just a portion of those millions of iterations was unavoidable, and the extreme spiritual and emotional toll drained him to the point that his intellect alone could not sustain him. For the sake of this reality most precious to him, he simply _had_ to take himself ‘out of time’ periodically—and in those rest periods, he always returned to the New York Sanctum, normally for no more than a few hours, or on a few occasions just long enough to get some restorative sleep. But this time? This time he lingered, for he knew that what came when he finally awoke from his trance, would wreak a cruel devastation to his spirit, which he would have to bear in silence, with no comfort or forgiveness in the offing for the fatal choice he was going to have to make.

Within the last few million possible timelines, Stephen had discovered patterns marked by key events which always led to a final confrontation between Thanos' massive forces against those of Earth. These futures encompassed a more intimate threat, well beyond that to the universe--for it promised the extinction of Earth itself, rather than just half of all life. He knew now that all those who had been discorporated-- _every_ life on _every_ planet in the cosmos--would be restored by Bruce Banner amalgamated with the Hulk, wielding a new gauntlet of Tony Stark's design. And that following hard upon that victory, Thanos would bring all his armies, all his weaponries, all his technology to bear upon upstate New York, destroying the Avengers facilities before turning to his main target--so that even with every resource on the planet arrayed in defense, the reversal of The Snap would be only a pyrrhic victory for Earth.

To his most profound dismay, Stephen was forced to conclude that Tony Stark was to be the two-fold key on this most narrow path to success, for he would create not only the tool that Banner would use--he would also become the ultimate sacrifice himself in the end, seizing the Infinity Stones from Thanos' grasp to use their power in the raw to end the insane Titan and everything at his command. Stephen had revisited variations of that timeline more than he cared to--or even could--remember, and the necessary sequence of events was always the same. Tony was going to die, and there wasn't a damn thing Stephen could do to change his fate if Earth was to survive.

* * *

Several million versions into his search, Stephen had felt as equally stymied and frustrated with his failures, as he was spiritually and emotionally depleted. He decided to seek the council of the wisest man he knew, hoping that a fresh perspective could help steer him in the right direction. Having assumed the worst after Stephen’s disappearance, Wong had been understandably shocked to find the Master of the New York Sanctum suddenly standing before him in the Library, but had swiftly embraced him with a show of immense relief and uncharacteristic affection, and had listened in astonishment to everything his fellow Sorcerer described to him. Once Wong had acclimated to Stephen’s dire tale, and understood the full gravity of his mission, he plied his fellow Master with many questions–and enabled by those answers, he was eventually able to offer new ideas and sage advice. Though each time Stephen returned, Wong retained no memory of their previous interactions, he still became a touchstone of sorts, with Stephen revisiting him a dozen or so times when he felt like he’d reached a dead end.

On one such visit, after having consulted with his friend, Stephen was preparing to jump back into the flow of time, when there came an insistent knocking on the Sanctum door. Wong replied before he’d even asked if company was expected. "No. I have no idea who that could be.” Unsolicited visitors to the Sanctum were ever as rare as a blue moon.

Puzzled, Stephen paused his departure. "Uh…are you gonna answer that?”

“Well, obviously not while _you’re_ here,” Wong frowned, motioning for Stephen to be on his way.

“Right,” Stephen nodded, wishing he could stay long enough to satisfy his curiosity. A quiet, feminine voice called from outside the door, and just as he conjured his way to reset the timeline, it grew louder. Loud enough so that her words and the tone of her desperate plea followed him as he went.

“ _…please, Stephen…please…please let me in…I have no place else to go…"_

* * *

Learning that Hope had survived The Snap, and that she had sought him out in her duress, became a small, secret treasure, which Stephen carried with him on every remaining step of his almost insurmountable task. By no means would he allow it to be a distraction–-but the warmth of his memories of her and the idea that she needed him as a man, rather than as a practitioner of the Mystic Arts, now reinforced his strength of purpose and kept him energized more than those intervals of stolen sleep ever had.

Still, the weight of his responsibilities, and his certainty regarding the most vital role that Stark would play in the final outcome, were burdens that grew heavier with every confirmation that he had _already_ glimpsed the solitary path to defeating Thanos. As Stephen observed the man in millions of desperate variations, interacted with him, fought at his side, defended him in battle and was defended by him, his reluctance to allow Tony to suffer that ultimate consequence grew in the same measure as his respect for the selfless heroism which Stark demonstrated at every turn. Yes, he was a hothead; arrogant, impatient, and cocky—the last with just cause, for his genius—but those qualities had their positive facets which served him well throughout every aspect of the conflict. And though he knew himself to possess many of those same characteristics—both negative and positive—Stephen had never known a soul quite like Anthony Edward Stark. Of course, their similarities had caused them to butt heads in the beginning, but now Stephen was grateful and humbled to consider Tony a comrade in arms—making it all the harder for him to allow Tony’s death without exhausting all other alternatives first.

And this was all _before_ Stephen found the future (one where he himself became the quintessence of dust) in which Stark was able to return to Earth, put his days as Iron Man completely behind him, and finally marry the love of his life, Pepper Potts. Their beautiful girl child, Morgan, arrived within the year, making them a perfect, little family, living a simple life off the grid, well removed from the grieving, post-Snap world. Oh, how happy they were! Stephen didn’t need to know Tony well to be able see that these were the best years of his life. Their sweet little girl seemed to embody the best of both of them, and she certainly kept her father on his toes, showing flashes of his brilliance by the time she was a toddler.

Even watching those years pass at breakneck speed, Stephen was witness to a happiness that he had never envisioned for himself. A happiness that he came to envy in a bittersweet way, as he silently observed the peaceful, quiet satisfaction of the retired Avenger’s new life; happiness that Tony _deserved_ after all the battles he had fought for the sake of humanity. For the sorcerer, the result was pure anguish, guilt, and deep self-loathing in light of the choice he could not escape, leaving him desperate to salvage something of this beautiful idyll as recompense for the cruelty of Stark’s inevitable sacrifice. As his options for any other outcome dwindled down to none, Stephen began to feel that it might be better if that sacrifice fell upon him instead, and he vowed that if he could find a timeline wherein _that_ reality could save the world, he would choose it without regret.

Inexorably, the burden of that bitter knowledge, and the continual isolation of his solitary mission, brought Stephen to the brink of debilitation, the ache in his heart become quite literal. Though he managed to hide the depth of his despair from Wong on his periodic visits back to Earth, there was no hiding it from himself. He recognized that he needed more than rest for his mind, body, soul. Now he craved sympathy and understanding. Consolation. Some show of tenderness, sourced from a loving heart—so that his own heart harkened back to the sound of Hope’s voice calling to him from outside the Sanctum door, like a sweet promise that she could be the perfect balm for the inescapable ache centered in his chest.

Still, he was extremely cautious the first several times he opened that door, for Hope’s sake and for what collateral effect their interaction might have upon the timeline. Stephen could see without her needing to speak a word, how the events of the past few days had worn her down. That she had been frightened and sleep-deprived at first, and now was clearly exhausted, but calm and brave enough to chance a trip across the city—a good portion of which she must’ve done on foot, given the disarray Wong had described as having fallen upon the streets outside. Each time she had come to him, she had let her backpack slide to the floor before moving into his open arms, her voice muffled as she pressed her face against his shoulder, telling him how happy and relieved she was to see him alive. Stephen would close his eyes as he rocked her gently, her body in his arms vital with beautiful life, a fierce little flame that clung to him and warmed his heart and banished for that little while the weight of the task that he could never escape.

Soon she would raise her head, and back away enough to observe him, her eyes widening as she noted the bloody gash and cuts on his face, and then reached with soft, tentative fingers to soothe his brow. Hope’s concern for him was palpable, and she swiftly reversed their roles, leading him to sit beside her on that same, long settee where Tony Stark had listened to Wong tell the story of the Infinity Stones.

Sometimes, the words spilled from his mouth in a rushed jumble, so that she had to take his face in her hands to get him to slow down and try to make some sense. Other times, Stephen had told her he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet and that he’d rather sit a while and just hold her. Holding on. Memorizing the spray of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the strands of dark honey threaded through her auburn hair, and how her voice caught when she didn’t want to break down again, doing her best to be strong for his sake. Someone being strong for _him_ for a change.

And sometimes what he wanted most was just to feel her needing him as simply Stephen, and would insist that she share her story in full before he spoke a word of his. Hope couldn’t tell it without the tears finally overwhelming her—so that more than once, he had held her while she trembled and cried, absorbing her grief and pain into himself—and though he was comforting her, somehow she was giving him so much more. Perhaps because this comfort was one-on-one, uncomplicated and easy to give right from the deep well of his lonesome heart; perhaps because she was a reminder of his own humanity, a physical and emotional connection which promised that life would go on eventually—Hope representing all the beautiful things that made life worth the journey, even amidst heartbreak and pain. And perhaps because somehow to do this for her gave _him_ comfort of sorts, while her kind, gentle nature and her perpetual optimism—qualities which had drawn him to her from the day they’d met—restored his soul more than any interludes of meditation and sleep, at _any_ point throughout his mission, had actually done.

As reluctant as he always was to leave, such partings were inevitable. Most often, Stephen would see her to guest quarters, explaining that it would be some time until she would see him again, but stressing that she was welcome to remain in the Sanctum for as long as she wished. He knew the timeline would reset once he was gone, and that just like Wong, Hope would have no recollection of their time together.

This time was different, of course. It was the last time he would see her, and the next reset would be the one that played out to its ultimate conclusion. Stephen was already aware that he would not feel the passage of time from now until that fateful day arrived; all those erased from existence at Thanos’s snap of the Gauntlet would be trapped and unconscious in some other dimension—although he planned to take to his astral form, in order to keep his wits about him. Roughly five hours would pass for him, but for the survivors of The Snap, it will have been five years. He did not—would not—seek to discover Hope’s future, for her fate was her own to find, but ideally he hoped to reconnect with her once all the dust was settled. He understood she very well may have moved on by then, and there would no longer be room in her life for him—and so these last hours he spent with her now felt all the more precious, as they might be the last they would ever have together.

In his past visits with Hope, Stephen had not revealed every detail of his story to her, not wishing to overwhelm her with the ominous weight of the burden he bore. It had been enough for her to know that his actions would impact the future of Earth, and his work involved not only mysticism but also the manipulation of time. Her gentle, earnest request--that he tell her what was happening, and how he was involved--filled him with welcome relief, as he considered just how to begin. The sincerity and true empathy reflected in her soft, blue eyes already had him feeling the truth of the maxim ' _confession is good for the soul_ '.

Stephen nodded and drew a deep breath, and finally began. "First, you must understand that at the birth of our universe, the Big Bang sent six powerful, elemental crystals careening across the far reaches of space..."

_(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

"…the initial attack had blasted the whole area down to bedrock, and once Thanos unleashed the full weapon fire from his ship, it cracked the remaining wall of rock that was holding back the lake.” Stephen’s voice had grown ragged, almost hoarse, as he revealed the details of the battle to come. "I’ve lost track of how many times I tried to set all the pieces in place…to marshal my forces so that enough of my fellow sorcerers would be standing ready to hold back that water—but I could never make it work. Moving just one of them away from their battle position changed the course of the overall battle by the littlest bit…“ His hand trembled badly as he held his thumb and index finger together, demonstrating the barest bit of the change that he had dared, ”…but _always_ just enough to throw things off balance, enough that eventually Thanos triumphed—so that it always _had_ to be me to work that spell."

Hope drew a deep breath, her eyes locked on his, and laid her hand against his cheek, like a benediction against the guilt deeply rooted in his soul. She had listened mostly in silence, only speaking up softly when he seemed to lose his train of thought, and patiently urging him to continue only if he felt up to it.

"And _that_ was my last option,” he continued, nearing the crux of what pained him the most, “Only _I_ could keep the battlefield from being flooded—so that the only man on the field who could secure the Stones, and use them to destroy Thanos and all of his forces, would actually have that chance.”

“But he’ll die doing it,” she surmised, “He’s going to die, and you can’t save him…”

Stephen nodded, and then hung his head, “Yes. I’ve tried and tried and tried, Hope…so damn hard…with every power at my command…with every…” He gritted his teeth, exasperated by his own uselessness, “…with every breath I’ve taken since first seeing that outcome…with the full scope of my imagination…to find a solution that won’t cost Tony Stark his life.” Stephen let his shoulders sag, the sting of his shame refreshed as he spoke his failure aloud. 

“No,” Hope whispered, clasping both of his hands in hers. "No, Stephen—you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of,” she insisted, her voice growing with conviction, "You’ve done infinitely more than any mortal man could…”

“But it wasn’t enough,” he groaned, shaking his head in denial, “I even explored more than a million outcomes, specifically looking for one where Stark’s fate would fall on me instead—but _I_ _could never make it work_.” Stephen finally let his tears fall freely, grateful that he was safe in sharing the true depth of his heartache with his ever-gentle confessor. He looked to Hope again, saw only understanding and sweet mercy writ upon her face, and knew he had chosen well to trust in her. "In my old life, I took an oath to do no harm, but when I return to Titan, I’m going to have to save his life, only to ensure that this good man—this father and husband…“

In his mind’s eye, a series of images flickered at the speed of thought, from a newborn baby Morgan in her father’s arms, to her parents joy at each new milestone their child reached, through years of laughter, love, and the challenges of parenthood, and ending with the upbeat farewell that Tony had made to them both, before leaving their secluded haven to head to the Avengers compound in New York. Pepper had calmly kept her tears at bay, not wanting to alarm their precocious little girl; Tony had put on his most casual, cavalier face, but when Morgan tucked her head into the crook of his neck and reminded him that she loved him ‘3,000’, the look he’d exchanged with his wife had devastated Stephen seeing it the first time—and now, just remembering it as well, knowing it was inevitably the last time that Stark would ever hold her.

“…and true hero—will not only craft the method of our salvation, but also die to save the world,” he finished bleakly.

"Oh god,” Hope’s voice cracked with sorrow for his pain. "Stephen, please…please…believe me,” she ran her fingers through the streak of white at his temple, trying her best to assuage him, "You mustn’t do this to yourself…” She closed the little gap between them, drawing his head against her shoulder, sighing hard as she stroked his hair. 

“My darling,” she crooned, the first time she had ever used such an endearment for him, “You’ve borne far too much, far too alone, for far too long. If I could just take a little of this burden from you, I’d consider myself blessed.” Through tears of compassion, she repeated his name, “Stephen…my darling, darling Stephen…you mustn’t torture yourself so.”

Soundlessly, he clung to her, his heart grown greedy for the softness she offered by simply being herself. Between this solitary, bitter journey, and the time spent in the loop with Dormammu, Stephen had lived out thousands of years apart from any companionship, let alone understanding and mercy. He had never asked for help or succor in all that time, being only ever focused on protecting and saving lives—nor had he ever expected thanks or any sort of recompense. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, here was someone who recognized the price he paid to wear the mantle of Master of the Mystic Arts, Time-Stone Wielder and Protector, and guardian of this reality—and often even more.

“Yes, dear,” she murmured, feeling him relax in her arms, while laying the softest kisses he’d ever known on his cheek and near his ear, “Let it go for at least a little while. Know that you’ve done your best, Stephen; that no man could possibly do, or give more, than you already have.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” he husked against the tender flesh of her neck, breathing in her sunshine warmth and the pale, citrusy scent of her skin. Another memory he would be sure to carry with him into the inescapable future.

“I know, darling,” she whispered against his ear, “I know—but trust me in this, okay?”

Stephen nodded and inhaled deeply, feeling her calm start to fill his lungs, replacing a share of his guilt with relief. When he finally felt ready, he sat back in his chair; Hope was quick to smooth the tears from his cheeks, “You are the best man I've ever known, Stephen Strange. Strong. And kind. And good." Words that felt to him like they came straight from her tender heart. She exhaled slowly, and the knot of anxiety and despair that had been lodged in his chest for a thousand years, began to unclench as he read the truth on her sweet face. "Now, my darling, beautiful, Stephen," she continued calmly. Gently. Lovingly. "There’s something you need to remember…something you might not have thought of…okay?”

He cupped one of her hands against his cheek and nodded again, even managing the ghost of a smile in answer to her request.

“Good.” She gave him the same sort of smile back. "Two things, really. First, that because of _you_ , Tony Stark is going to survive Titan, and have those five beautiful years with Pepper and their daughter. From what you’ve described, it sounds like the life they have, the love they share, is something most people never even get to experience.”

"Alright,” he agreed, for she echoed what the small voice in the back of his mind had been insisting for some time now. "And?”

"And…” she informed him firmly, yet with the same gentleness that marked her regard for him at every turn, “…from everything you’ve told me about Tony Stark, I’m absolutely certain that if given the choice, he would step up to save the world for _their_ sake alone. Don’t you think so?”

He had been so exhausted for so long, and so immersed in his guilt and desperation, that such an idea had not really occurred to Stephen. Now he could almost hear how Stark might exclaim it: _If the only way they survive—and that Earth survives—is for me to lose…well, hell, I gotta be on board with that._ Stephen closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed and steadied, as he shed another share of the guilt that had become his unflagging companion on this ponderous quest.

"Yes," Hope urged him, "Your burden is heavy enough already without piling on the responsibility for the choice which Stark is bound by his _own_ nature, to make."

He nodded, the warmth of her palm against his cheek soothing him in equal measure to the wisdom of her words. "I don't think I realized until just now how much I needed to hear someone say that," he admitted, looking into her eyes once more, and seeing the gentlest of affirmations there.

Hope's brow furrowed a moment, as though she was perplexed, though her voice held no reproach, "You mean I _haven't_ told you this already, in your previous visits here?"

"I never gave you the chance to," he confessed, regretting that choice in light of her merciful, sympathetic response. "I never confided the _entire_ story to you before." 

She hummed softly at that revelation, mulling it over. "Okay...I, uh...I _guess_ I can understand that. But, um..." she lowered her eyes and hesitated a moment, "...what makes _this_ time so different?"

Although Stephen was sure that she had already guessed the reason, he knew he owed her the answer. "Because this time, when I go back," his voice broke with the sad truth of it, "It's going to be for good.

Hope nodded and a couple of tears spilled from beneath her lowered lashes, sympathetic tears for the inevitability of his burden. "I kinda figured that was...that was why." When she met his eyes again, hers shone bright with further tears withheld. "I'm so sorry, Stephen. I wish there was more I could do than just...offer you words...I..." she sighed, "I wish you didn't have to face this all alone."

An unexpected sense of peace filled his chest, and spread throughout his body like the warm flow of blood in his veins. "Oh, honey," he promised her, "I won't be _entirely_ alone. Not anymore. Stephen gathered her other hand in his, and lightly traced his thumb back and forth along the heart and life lines on her palm. "That's _your_ gift to me, Hope. I'm here right now because I knew that _you_ could grant me that last little bit...," he gave her a quiet, bittersweet smile, "...of very human, very humane _magic._ And that's exactly what I've been needing to see me through to the end of this battle."

Her smile at that was sunshine breaking through thunderheads, so lovely and purely for him that his heart felt like to burst with the bloom of love---the seeds of which had lain dormant since his life had been stolen from him in the shadow of that invading spaceship, too long ago for him to even reckon properly now.

Hope bit her lip, eyeing him with curiosity and her ready humor. "So, tell me, Mr. Remarkable---what comes next?"

"Well," he began, grinning at the nickname she had given him on the day they had met, "I was hoping you would stay with me a while longer. Now that I've nearly reached the end, I believe I can afford a little time to just...be. To simply enjoy your company. Maybe we can sit beneath that silver maple in Washington Square Park again, and I can finally breathe air clean of the haze of battle and feel the sun shine on my face after so much smoke and darkness." _And death_ , he might have added, but for the happiness his suggestion had brought to her face. "And I'm going to take a long, hot shower, because it's been literally a thousand years since I had _that_ luxury."

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," she teased him, "But you might wanna do just that."

Stephen narrowed his eyes, enjoying her return to playfulness, for it was a form of healing that he had prayed to find in her. Cherishing every moment of their _now_ , while his heart stored all of them up for future comfort---for he still did not know what future awaited _him_ , let alone Hope, once the endgame of this epic, universal struggle played out in full.

“Alright then,” Hope concluded, rising and beginning to clear the dishes away, rinsing them quickly before depositing them in the dishwasher, “Whatever the Master of the Mystic Arts needs, I’m more than happy to provide---it’s the very least that I can do for the salvation of the universe.”

Silently, Stephen stood up while she went about her task, fascinated with---and grateful for---her resiliency, and thanking the universe that had seemed to be so unendurably cruel since Bruce Banner had come crashing through the Sanctum roof, for finally giving him a measure of mercy. He took Hope by surprise, sliding an arm around her waist, and turning her to face him. “Just leave the salvation of the universe in my hands, honey. It’s enough for me that you’re seeing to my own.” With that, he kissed her breathless, before they left the Sanctum arm in arm, in search of sunshine enough to ward off the darkness that awaited him once he resumed his dread task.


	5. Chapter 5

"I can't believe it...I can’t believe it's gone."

They had been holding hands as they passed under the marble arch, which marked the northern boundary of the park, content to simply be in one another's company. It was the first time that Stephen had dared---or had even been inclined---to leave the Sanctum at all, for there had been no need to do so in his previous visits. As he and Hope had walked the nearly empty streets of Greenwich Village, he had gotten a true sense of what the world had become post-Snap; the usual background noise of the city had faded away to nearly naught, and both cars and pedestrians were few and far between. Still, Hope did her best to stay chipper, clearly meaning to distract them from the emptiness around them and to keep their outing as carefree as she could---all for his sake.

But she had been as unprepared as Stephen had been for what the Snap had done to nature as well as to mankind. The park was nearly unrecognizable as such. Much of the grass was gone, leaving large patches of dirt in its stead. All the other plant life had been reduced by at least half as well---so much shrubbery, flowers, and trees, gone and leaving gaping holes in the landscape, destroying the fragile illusion that there might be some green oasis somewhere, untouched by the cruel event. Even the usual birdsong had gone mostly quiet, leaving the occasional trill or tweet to sound forlorn and hopeless. As bravely as Hope had carried on since they'd set out on their little excursion, discovering only empty space where 'their' silver maple had once stood was shock enough to send her spirits crashing.

Her hand fell from his grasp and she took several steps forward, as though she needed to get close to that emptiness to grasp the bitter truth of it. Stephen gave her that moment, watching her bow her head, certain she was feeling what had become all too familiar to him since he began his quest back on Titan. The acrid taste of defeat.

"I can't believe it," she repeated, almost to herself, and then he was at her side, sliding his arm around her shoulders, so that she turned into him and rested her head in the crook of his neck. Stephen could feel her breath catch as Hope wrestled to keep her tears at bay---again for his sake, he had no doubt.

"It's okay, honey," he husked against the crown of her head, "It's okay to cry...I've got you and I'm not letting go." _Not yet anyway_ , he thought ruefully, _and only when I absolutely have to_. Of course, Stephen already knew that the next time he stood in Washington Square Park, their tree would stand again as well---but there was no guarantee that Hope would be at his side, let alone even a part of his life. Therefore, he vowed to treasure every remaining moment they had left together, before he had to leave her behind in order to complete the dire task whose success rested upon him alone.

But she didn't let herself give into those tears, choosing to draw a deep, deep breath as she came back to herself instead; he could feel her determination to be strong for him reassert itself in the set of her shoulders and the straightening of her spine. "I _know_ you’re going to make all of this right, eventually," she told him, "But it still hurts to see the world this way."

He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her all the closer, taking unto himself both the beauty of her faith in him and a portion of the grief that she carried---grief that he knew would surely cripple a lesser heart than hers. Stephen hummed with quiet satisfaction when Hope finally relaxed completely and hugged him back, tightly and unabashedly, letting go---for a while, at least---much of the sorrow that this sad, new state of the world had birthed in her.

Stephen held her that way for a while, feeling the nurturing warmth of the sun even through his closed lids, while the light, clean summer breeze wafted against his skin as he hadn’t felt in—what was to him—more than a millennia. Sinking into every second of how this gentle soul had found him so worthy of her trust that she had sought him out in her time of need, while offering him compassion and unconditional forgiveness when he couldn’t even find those things within himself, to grant himself. _This_ was life. Simple, uncomplicated life, too often taken for granted by billions of his fellow men and women, until something came along to steal it away without warning or remorse. It was now his honor and privilege to give everything he could, everything he was, to ensure that every soul that had been so cruelly lost, found their way home again.

His resolve thus strengthened, Stephen smoothed his fingers through Hope’s hair, and then tilted her face up to his. "I _am_ going to make this right,” he reiterated, "I only regret that it’ll be five years until _you_ get to see it done.” _Well, that—and that when I leave this timeline, and cannot leave you with the knowledge that the world will finally be restored._

"Five years," she repeated, her brow crinkled as she accepted that hard truth, before acquiescing with a nod and asking him gamely---knowing full well what his answer would be, "You wouldn't be able to use that Time Stone thingie of yours to fast forward the process a bit?"

"Would that I could, honey," he sighed, resting his forehead on hers, "I'm already missing you just thinking about going back..."

Hope pouted prettily, and Stephen understood that she meant to make light of the insurmountable separation, more for him than for herself. "Well, you damn well better---five years is a long time to wait for your next taste of my amazing, gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches, you know."

Stephen chuckled, smiling for the first time since they'd entered the park. He brushed the tip of his nose against hers and kissed her softly, "Hope, I swear that once everything gets back to normal, your sandwiches are gonna be at the top of my to-do list." _Though the taste of your kisses is what I'll be taking back with me into the darkness and the fray. They're the sweetest that I've ever known._

She replied with an effortless, sunny smile---though her eyes revealed the same doubts that lived as an uneasy whisper in the back of his mind: would they _really_ be able to find one another again, when Hope would have no clue that he had even survived his abduction by Thanos's minion? Everything that had happened since she had knocked upon his door would live in _his_ memory alone, and he could not expect her to _not_ to move on, with a heart that just seemed made to give some lucky man the kind of love she'd shown herself to bear.

"So, uh...how about we head back to Bleecker Street," he suggested, locking those sad thoughts away so as to enjoy the hours left ahead for them, "Maybe let me show you a couple of things we missed earlier?"

She brightened even more at that, though felt the need to ask him, "But don't you have to get back to...saving the universe? Can you afford to spend so much time away?"

"Time is on _our_ side right now, honey," he assured her, feathering his fingertips along her cheek and then her neck, "So just this one repetition, I can afford the luxury of following what my heart is telling me to do."

She lowered her eyes shyly, paused to consider if she dared a reply, and then looked back at him with hope and quiet breathlessness, “And what does it tell you to do about me?”

“To hold onto you as dearly as I can, for as long as I am able,” he answered with an equal share of breathlessness at the promise in her solemn eyes. _And anything more, it’s best that I keep to myself_ , _for both our sakes_ , he mused, before he took her along with him, turning their backs on the disappointment that had dampened, but could not permanently damage, the heat that was growing between them, moment by moment. Breath by breath.

* * *

They ended their day together under the stars, as seen from the vantage point of the Sanctum roof. But first, Stephen had guided Hope through the Hall of Relics, giving her brief histories of his favorite objects, while gradually making their way to the most important feature of the building---the _Anomaly Rue_ , or Window of the Worlds, as it was called in the vernacular. Cloak had been waiting for them there, hovering patiently while Stephen explained the significance of the glass and metal oculus to his work, and then as he used his magic to give her a glimpse of some of the most spectacular phenomenon in the cosmos. Hope had been entirely astonished at and very happily immersed in those wonders, and when Cloak finally came forward for an introduction, she had offered her hand in greeting in much the same way that Peter Parker had done on that alien ship bearing them to Titan.

Given their relaxed circumstances, Stephen wasn’t surprised that Cloak extended itself to her in a similar way, loosely twining a corner of cloth around her hand. “Hope, I’d like you to meet my partner in many a mystical undertaking---in fact, it’s saved my life at least a dozen times over, and has seen me through my toughest challenges without fail, since it decided I was worthy of its loyalty.” His voice had grown thick with affection and the deep gratitude he felt for his relic, as he considered that it was also the only sentient being who truly fathomed the extremities he had endured on this relentless, merciless quest. “This is the Cloak of Levitation.” 

Cloak rippled slightly, seeming to straighten its collar in pride at Stephen’s lofty regard. “And Cloak, this is…well, this is my…” He hesitated only a breath, but time enough for Stephen’s eyes to meet hers, and read in them her gentle consent to be called his in all the ways that mattered the most. “This… _this_ is _my_ Hope.”

He could only follow Cloak’s silent prompting when it reached to him and skimmed against his arm, urging him closer to Hope---reading in that guileless act not only Cloak’s approval of the lady, but also it’s understanding of the very tender feelings Stephen held for her, though he had yet to speak aloud.

Now they lay on their backs, holding hands once again. Stephen had conjured a cushiony pallet big enough for the two of them, and a soft, fleecy blanket to cover it---unconsciously fashioning it after a comfy, tartan coverlet that had kept him warm on many a chill autumn night in his youth, while the wind had sent fingers of cold through the chinks in the eaves that lay above his farmhouse bedroom. He’d really just intended to see to Hope’s comfort, there on the roof, coming to realize only _after_ he had left that timeline behind him, how much that artless choice showed how entwined she had become for him, with his idea of comfort. With his elemental need to finally find his way… _home._

Like an echo of that first evening on the day they had met, they had watched as the sun set in a glory of color. Already the usual haze of pollution over a metropolis of more than eight million souls had begun to thin, with so many people gone, and so many vehicles and businesses out of the equation, making the colors far more vibrant than either Hope or Stephen had seen during their time living in the city. They did not speak of this sobering fact, trying to enjoy the beauty without thinking about the wicked thorns that came along with it. Instead, Stephen regaled her with the quirkiest anecdotes of his lesser adventures, allowing the music of her pretty laughter to fill him to the brim, until it was dark enough for the bright pinpoints of the stars to spark above them.

Once the stars were visible, Stephen had begun pointing out various constellations that held strong connections to matters of the mystic arts, and then the stars of worlds that he had visited---which, of course, required him to explain the use of portals. “I had a helluva time successfully completing my first portal,” he had confided, “I tried to blame my difficulties on my hands---but my teacher wouldn’t have that. Only when she put me in a make or break situation, did I find within myself the patience, the vision, and the wherewithal to make it happen.” He lapsed into silence, considering what had often crossed his mind as he explored the countless timelines for the one solution to Thanos: _did the Ancient One foresee this endless journey I’d have to take to fix our reality…and have I done right by her faith in me?_

“And now _you’re_ the teacher,” Hope observed, in counterpoint to his musings, “And dare I say, Master of all you survey?”

He huffed in humbled amusement, “Far from it, honey. I’ve mastered quite a lot, but there is _always_ something more to learn. Always some adversary with powers that could overwhelm even the best of our Mystic Fraternity.”

Hope sighed hard, and gingerly tightened her hold on his hand, “Say what you will, _Doctor_ Strange, but while your modesty is very…” She turned her face from observing the stars to observe him, and Stephen’s cheeks grew warm under the strength of her regard---while her voice grew low, tinged with an appreciative, throaty sort of growl that awakened his imagination to more intimate thoughts, “… _very_ … _becoming_ …you are an incredibly remarkable and selfless soul, and when this whole story is finally told, I would be _honored_ to be a witness to the world, of everything you’ve done to save us.”

He shook his head and brought their hands to rest together, above his heart, “Honestly, honey, all I want when this is over is some measure of peace and quiet for a while. Yeah…” Stephen’s voice broke at the mere thought of his ordeal finally being over; he cleared his throat and added, “In fact, I’d be happy to just slip back into anonymity---maybe even with someone who…who _gets_ me…by my side.”

Hope exhaled softly in the darkness and turned herself enough to rest her head on his shoulder. They continued to lay there quietly, each pondering all the meaning implicit in his declaration---until he just _had_ to speak up, “Are you…are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah…yeah…I’m great.” She hummed, and nodded against him, “I was just thinking that _any_ star could be a wishing star, if you make that wish with all your heart and soul…”

Stephen chuckled at the notion, grateful for the dark that surely hid the tears that had leaked from the outside corners of eyes and trailed across his skin to land on the blanket beneath his head. And then smiled at Hope’s unerring knack to lighten his grayest moments. “That depends…what wish would you have in mind, my dear?”

Hope t’sked and laughed a little, “You silly, delightful man, you…” She craned her neck enough to kiss his cheek---making him wonder if she had inadvertently tasted his tears---and then she nestled her head back against his shoulder, “My wish is for you, darling. For you to receive all the good things you deserve…” Her boundless kindness and generosity colored the night around them, warming his heart more thoroughly than ever before, as she added, “My wishes now are all for you, Stephen. Only and ever, for you.”

_(to be continued)_


	6. Chapter 6

“So…”

“So?”

After the roof, they had raided the pantry for a near-midnight snack (day old cinnamon rolls, which in Stephen’s opinion tasted all the sweeter for the company that he shared them with), and now they were standing on the second floor landing, just down the hall from the Sanctum living quarters, as Hope hedged her way towards the question that appeared to be as much on her mind as it was on Stephen’s. “Sooooo…I was sort of hoping it would be alright for me to spend the night here…”

A devilishly pleased smile tickled the corners of his mouth as he tried his best not to rush a very predictable answer. She was trying _her_ level best to be casual about the subject—though his instincts told him it was as important to her as it was to him. And she looked slightly flummoxed and completely adorable while doing so. “I mean, there’s no subway service between here and home, and what buses are running haven’t held to any kind of schedule…and by this time of night, they’re probably not running at all…so it would be ages by the time I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge for home…”

Stephen had been nodding sympathetically, and his smile wanted to fill his whole face, but he tempered his voice to sound calm and nonchalant, rather than how he really felt—extremely pleased and eager at the prospect. Eager enough to let himself ‘forget’ the quick remedy creating a portal to her apartment would present. “Well, yes,” he told her instead, “Yes, of course you’re welcome to stay here tonight, Hope.” And then, upon seeing her sweet smile of relief, he couldn’t help but admit, “I was sort of hoping that you would.” _Well, more than sort of,_ he thought, _but there’s no need to be too obvious about it._

“Really?” she sighed, beaming.

“Absolutely.” Oh, how elated he felt, seeing how pleased he had made her! “We’ve got plenty of room here, too,” he told her, silently reveling in the happy light of her eyes, “You can use the guest quarters across the hall from mine…if that’s, uh…something that would work for you…”

Hope stepped into him, all soft and guileless, and laid one hand on his chest, “Well, I…um…if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, I was thinking maybe I could room with _you_ tonight…just…just this once.”

Stephen had been barely nodding, studying the gentle expectancy upon her face, and thinking that he probably looked pretty foolish from the sappy grin he must be wearing. “I didn’t want to presume…but that…that would be _really_ nice…”

“Really, _really_ nice,” she echoed, punctuating her delight with a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then adding a little breathlessly, “So, how about you show me the way?”

He exhaled slowly, wishing he had the restraint to play it cool, while thinking that Hope _had_ to be able to see how this delicious turn of events—and the prospects it entailed—was affecting him. “Alrighty, then…” Stephen let his voice drop into a low caress, noting that her eyes had widened at the sound. He flicked his hand, and the lights along the walls flickered to life, with soft light just enough to let them see their way down the hall. “Follow me,” he told her, allowing himself to gaze upon on her lips a moment, before adding, “If you dare…”

“I’d follow you anywhere, Stephen,” she returned huskily, meeting his regard with equal impudence, “Anywhere…and then some.”

* * *

With little effort, Stephen had magiked Hope’s backpack to sit on the bottom of his bed, so that it was waiting for her the moment they opened the door. “Wow, this is bigger than I expected—and a lot less austere.”

“What were you expecting,” he chuckled, “A monk’s cell?”

“Something like,” Hope shrugged, turning in a slow circle to take in the whole room. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, “And what smells so good? It’s very familiar…and it reminds me of _something_ …though I don’t think I’ve smelled it for years…”

“Frankincense. And cedarwood. I burn them when I meditate…

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “Frankincense. I remember it from when I was a kid.” Hope looked back to him, “They burned it in church, but only at the most solemn masses. I used to love that,” she added, “I looked forward to those masses every year.”

“It’s an ancient tradition in many faiths,” he told her, moving to light the little cone of fragrance that sat on his bedside table, “And it’s been proven to help open the mind and spirit to the mystical—as well as having some fascinating healing properties.”

Hope perched on the edge of his bed, “It’s very soothing, isn’t it?” She watched him boldly, clearly waiting for him to join her.

Seeing such an invitation in her eyes, Stephen’s heart was sketching an eager little tap dance, while a pleasant ache—which was anything _but_ soothing—coursed through his veins, threatening to override his best intentions. Somehow, he managed to maintain a semblance of decorum, “I’m, uh…just gonna jump in the shower first…” He motioned towards the bathroom. “But please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything before I…” He trailed off at the mischievous quirk of her smile.

“Um…sure,” she sighed, a trace of disappointment in her reply, “Could I borrow something to sleep in?”

A little surprised by her request, Stephen paused to think a moment. “Oh, yeah. I can get you one of the loose fitting garments the Adepts use for training exercises.”

He started for the door, but Hope called him back. “Stephen, I can just make do with an old tee shirt, if you’ve got one.”

“Right.” _I might have thought of that myself if my hormones weren’t shouting at me full force at the moment._ “Help yourself, honey. I’ve got a few tucked away in the second dresser drawer there.”

“Thanks.” Her quiet smile made him wonder if she had somehow read his all too frank thoughts as her eyes lingered on his, “Don’t be too long, Stephen…okay?”

His mouth felt too dry to answer smoothly, so that he only nodded—vigorously—before he slipped into the bathroom.

* * *

Impatient to get back to Hope, Stephen had foregone the long, hot shower he’d originally planned on, opting for a quick and—thinking to cool his ardor a bit—rather lukewarm one instead. He had only hastily towel-dried his hair—though he had taken care to grab his softest tee along with his best pair of pajama bottoms to don once he was dry, and had brushed his teeth fastidiously. It had been a few Earth years since he’d spent _any_ kind of night with a woman—and in mental years, he had racked up at least a couple thousand years of life experience using the Time Stone to defend Earth from Dormammu and to explore the millions of timelines on his way to the ultimate one to come. He had to wonder if after all that time, he might blow their tryst in some unanticipated, ridiculous way.

Stephen stood just on the inside of the bathroom door,drawing on his training to control his breathing, to calm his nerves, to make himself the picture of cool composure. He tried not to imagine anything beyond the moment he would enter his room, intending with all heart to wait patiently enough to allow their time together to unfold naturally.

Upon opening the door, Stephen saw that Hope had piled a couple of his pillows against the headboard, so she could read comfortably while she waited for him, having selected a text on Astral Projection. _Probably not the_ _lightest reading she could have picked_ , he decided _, but a nice try to_ _learn a bit about what I do_. She’d loosed her hair from its clip, which lay discarded on the bedside table, and had chosen wisely from his tee shirt collection. Pink Floyd’s ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’. He smiled to think that she had chosen it because he had mentioned their _Comfortably Numb_ as one of his favorite tunes, likely remembering that minor detail from weeks and weeks ago when they were first getting to know one another.

Barefoot, he padded across the Persian rug to the opposite side of the bed, suddenly feeling out of place in his own room, simultaneously feeling the full weight of the possibilities that lay ahead for them. Hope shut the book and set it aside, and then patted the space beside her. “I was feeling a little lonely while you were gone,” she told him, playing a bit of the coquette as she batted her eyes and fluffed her thick, auburn waves with one hand, “But I just kept reminding myself that good things come to those who wait.”

 _The best things,_ he considered wryly, _and in your case, Hope, it’s as if I’ve waited about a thousand years._ Stephen recalled their beginning; that first night when he’d tried to reach for the stars, and she hadn’t been quite ready for that; he had known even then that however long the wait would be until she was, it would absolutely be worth it. In the two months since that night, he had been more circumspect, for a variety of reasons, and though they had never discussed it, he had been aware that Hope was puzzled at the delay in the natural progression of their relationship. However, every sign she gave him now confirmed that she shared what he’d been feeling as their hours together had passed. He planned to savor every moment, every breath and kiss and touch they would share, so to carry them with him into the thorny future that awaited, as the sweetest sort of recompense for the sacrifices he had already made, and for those yet to come.

First covering her mouth as she yawned, and then shaking it off, Hope smiled with quiet patience, watching as he stood beside the bed.

“If we’re lucky…very, _very_ lucky…yes, they do,” he averred, dimming the lamplight with a pass of his hand across the shade, “And I believe we’re both well overdue for a share of…of the good things. Stephen flipped back the coverlet and the sheet, and then settled in beside her, finally stretching his arm around her and pulling her close.

She gave a long sigh as she laid her head against his shoulder and her hand upon his chest. “If you had told me this morning that _this_ is where I’d be tonight, I wouldn’t have believed it,” she confided. “Thank you for being here, Stephen. For opening that door, and for taking me in, and…and…hmmm…” Hope yawned again, longer and deeper that the first. “For letting me lean on you so much, especially after all the hells that you’ve been through.”

“Oh, honey,” he protested gently, “If any thanks are due, they’re _mine_ to give. Because _you’ve_ been exactly what I need to restore my strength. To remind me that there _will_ be light after all the darkness and loss and pain I’ve been witness to.” _And borne as well_ , he thought, but knew he needn’t remind her of it. Stephen laid his hand over hers, speaking softly as his breathing came to match the quiet rhythm of her own, “To show me a forgiveness which I could never find within myself.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.

She moved to lean up on her elbow, blinking several times while she studied his face. “No matter what happens, you remember that, Stephen Strange,” she demanded most gently, drowsiness evident in her every feature, beguiling his heart with her effort to stay awake for his sake. “I won’t be around to remind you, so you need to keep that close at heart.” Her dear little pout—again for his sake—had him pressing his lips together against an outright grin, and nodding in obedience.

“I will, baby,” he promised, watching her try her best and still fail to stifle another yawn, then catching it from her, and yawning back. She looked so soft and truly quite ready for slumber, struggling to keep her eyes wide open. He tucked two fingers beneath her chin, tilted her face close and chastely kissed her forehead, before insisting, “But now I think you need to get some sleep…” Hope opened her mouth to object, but he shook his head, “Nope. Doctor’s orders on this one, honey. A good night’s rest, and we can discuss this some more in the morning, if we need to.”

“Wait…I thought we would…we _finally_ would…” she mumbled, but it was already clear he’d won his point, as he prompted her to lay her head against him again. She nestled into him, just as if it was her natural place to be. “I’m so sorry, Stephen,” she managed, “I swear, the spirit is willing—more willing than it’s ever been…”

“But the flesh is oh so weak,” he finished, smiling still and feeling an eternal sort of patience. He kissed her forehead again, “I think we both could use a long nap. And I’ll be happy just to hold you for now, honey.”

“And you’ll still be here in the morning? Can you promise me that?” How anxious she sounded!

“Cross my heart,” he swore.Stephen felt her relax fully at that. “Like I told you earlier—for once, I have all the time in the world.”

Hope nodded, grateful for his patience, and then shimmied onto her side. Stephen followed, big spoon to her little spoon, settling his arm across her abdomen, while noting with a pang of wistful regret that she was only wearing panties in addition to his tee shirt. Her warm, soft curves felt a perfect fit to him, so that he moaned without meaning to, at the unintended temptation she presented.

“Are you alright?” she asked, moving her hand atop his to keep it firmly in place, and then weaving her fingers through his.

Stephen nuzzled her hair, smiling to himself at the mix of honest concern and sleepiness in her voice. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he reassured her, loving even the feel of her fingers threaded through his, “Better than I’ve been in…forever, I suppose.”

“Good…you deserve that and more, darling…” Hope nestled her head deeper into the pillow, mumbling something further that he couldn’t quite catch, as sleep finally overtook her.

Stephen pressed his lips to her hair, gently so as not to wake her. Just holding Hope this way was a bliss he never imagined would be his—not now, or ever, as the gravest choice he had ever made, waited to be played out. Such an unanticipated mercy that he realized it would be greedy of him to expect the universe to grant him more. No matter what came with daylight, she had shown him in every way he needed that she saw the very best of him, without fail—and that she longed to give him the very best of herself. He could think of no better comfort to take with him into his rest.

* * *

Stephen had always had an impeccable sense of time—more than just ‘timing’, but time itself—well before he had mastered the powers of the Time Stone. He had prided himself on his punctuality as a student, as a resident, and as a world class surgeon, and that aspect of his reputation had kept his interns and staff constantly on their toes, eager to please him in imitating that good habit. Moreover, he had never really needed his collection of pricey, luxury timepieces for any practical purpose, for he usually just _knew_ a close approximation of the time without even checking his watch. That irony had not been lost upon him when he discovered that he could wield The Eye of Agamotto, when most far more experienced sorcerers could not. Waking up in his darkened room, he felt disoriented for a few seconds, and quickly estimated that he’d been asleep for nearly four hours, and that the dawn would be upon them soon.

Sometime during the night, Hope had turned in his arms to face him, so that her legs were tangled with his( _her bare legs_ , he remembered, while a flush of heat filled his belly), and her forehead was pressed to his chest. Her drowsy warmth laying so immediately against him was soothing, though it reawakened his longing for so much more, that fundamental imperative that had been quickening his blood through the many hours they had spent together. Stephen knew that Hope had been feeling it too, and that only the sheer exhaustion from everything she had experienced since The Snap, had come between them—though he had already resolved that if it wasn’t going to happen for them this night, this quiet little interlude of peace and comfort would still be enough to brace him for the grueling work that lay ahead.

 _Yes_ , he maintained, _this_ can _be enough; the sweetest memory to hold onto not only through the terrible task that has fallen upon me, but in the bitter aftermath, when accusing eyes will look to_ me _to justify the sacrifice that couldn’t be avoided_. Stephen suspected that he’d face the worst of those accusations just looking in the mirror, come the other side of the penultimate battle.

He closed his eyes, barely tightening his arms around his dear Hope, thinking to drowse a bit longer himself, when she stretched a little and snuggled her head further against him. “Mmmmm,” she nearly purred, a sound like rich, dark, melted chocolate that could only leave him craving more, “…this is…nice…mmmmm…”

“It’s _very_ nice,” he rumbled back, nestling his nose and lips in her hair, while staying the impulse to go for even more.

“You kept the nightmares away,” she told him dreamily, sounding as though she could sink back into sleep in a heartbeat, “Thank you…”

He smiled as he kissed the crown of her head, “Glad to be of service, honey. Anytime…”

Hope hummed at that, and slid her hand onto the side of his neck, the heat in that single touch guaranteeing that _he_ wouldn’t be falling back to sleep any time soon. She raised her head and leaned in close enough to begin kissing his throat ever so softly, and then gliding her lips to pamper him with kisses all along his jawline to beneath his ear.

Stephen moaned, giving into her gentle persuasion; the softness she lavished upon him felt so good, so right, relaxing him even as the heat in his blood began to rise. “This is _verrrrry_ nice, honey,” he sighed, taking deep, slow breaths while she traced his skin with patient, insistent kisses.

“Yes,” she breathed onto his flesh, moistening her lips and making him shiver when she lightly stroked her thumb along his cheekbone, before threading her fingers in his hair. “And I don’t want to wait a single minute more…”

“Oh, gawd, no…” he groaned, “…not even a second more.” She gave a little ‘oompf’ when he surprised her by shifting his body to rise above her, giving into the longing to see her face, wanting so badly to drink in the sight if her wanting him with equal hunger. Swift to comply with his unspoken need, Hope turned onto her back, gazing up as him in a wonder that answered his own; wonder that their time _had_ come at last. Stephen breathed hard, staying himself from too abruptly claiming everything she was offering him. Carefully pausing in order to make his feelings clear. Artlessly, but from his heart, he stammered, “Hope…baby…you’ve been my oasis…my…my unasked for miracle…”

She nodded and smiled up at him, her eyes moist at all the unexpressed meaning that had grown between them.

“…you are the breath in my lungs right now…and you’ll be my breath even after I…after I have to leave here. And I don’t want to love you…make love to you…and then _have_ to leave you this way, because you deserve so much better than that.” He closed his eyes and swallowed back the bittersweet of the moment, and then looked to her again, “But I can’t change that fate. So knowing all this, please…please tell me what you want me to do.”

Her breath caught, but she did not hesitate. “Oh, Stephen…my Stephen…” Soothingly, she laid her hand against his cheek, “I want it all…I want everything… _everything_ …with you. Even before you opened your door, I knew that I could trust you with all that I am.” She bit her lip and her eyes shone bright for him, “I knew that my heart would be safe…so safe…in your _beautiful_ hands.”

Stephen leaned down and brushed his lips on hers, humbled again by her generous regard. 

“There’s just one thing I need to know,” Hope whispered, while he let his mouth hover above hers, awaiting their next deep kiss, as she stroked her fingertips along his jaw, “Tell me, honestly…have we come this far before? In any of those other timelines, when I came here to see you, did we…make love before?”

He took a moment to answer, thinking surely his expression must be answer enough; looking at her wondrously, the corners of his mouth ticking up just slightly, giving the barest shake of his head. Stephen was taking in her every detail, memorizingthe soft blush of desire that colored her cheeks and the steady cadence of her breath. Drinking in the deep blue of her eyes, made darker by the low light in the room. Setting that particular shade of blue in his mind as eternally hers; marking it forever as _Hope’s_ blue. “No, honey. I swear on my soul—no.” He pursed his lips in a small, patient smile. “Not that I wasn’t tempted—but we never even spent the night together. I always left you at the door of your guest quarters. Because _anything_ else wouldn’t have been fair to you. Because I never told you _everything_ before, like I have this time… _not_ that I told you everything to get us to _this_ point. I just needed someone, somehow, to understand what I’ve been through.”

In tender understanding, she took up where he left off, “This is the final time you’ll be here before the end, isn’t it? And then you won’t be coming back for a long, long time after. This… _this_ is the time that pays for all…”

“Yes, baby…it pays for everything that’s happened in the past…and everything that waits further down the road.”

Her eyes widened a moment, as her understanding of what he left unsaid registered, nodding her acceptance of the uncertainty the future held for them as a pair. “Good. That’s good,” she finally murmured, teasing his lower lip with hers as a promise of what was to come between them, “I want this to be as special for you as it is for me. The first time for us both, like it would have been if the world hadn’t been turned upside down…”

Overcome by need as much by wonder at his wise and gentle woman, Stephen stopped her words, her very breath; stopped them short with a searing kiss that spoke his feelings for her more immediately than any words ever could. Hope ran her hands through his hair, holding on tight, holding onto him as though his kiss was the only sustenance she might ever need. When they finally broke, to draw ragged breath, she moved her hands to hold his face, willing his eyes open. In hers he saw a quiet desperation, a need that equaled all that he was feeling. “Love me now, Stephen,” she begged, though he knew himself to be the true beggar of the two, “Love me now—and like there’s no tomorrow.” She left unsaid that which both knew to be true.

They had no tomorrow to look forward to.


	7. Chapter 7

So, here they were at last. The place they would surely have come to eventually, if not for the madness of a monster from a world too far away from Earth-- _from home_ \--to be accurately reckoned by the human mind. Holding Hope now, experiencing the tenderness which Stephen knew she had been patiently waiting to bestow upon him for the past several weeks of her life, he knew himself a fool for having waited even this long to let themselves become lovers. He had wanted her from that first evening they met, and that desire had never truly abated---but he had delayed their physical union because he felt he could not, in good conscience, make love to her before finally revealing the mind-blowing truths of his life.

His time had not been his own for nearly two millennia, and Stephen had lived through it all with a crushing, unfathomable loneliness, which only near-immortal beings could ever know. Until this day, this night, this very hour, when—thanks to the sweet, loving soul in his arms—he was no longer a slave of merciless, dispassionate Time. Stephen was free of those obligations now, of the past and of the grim future, free to choose a happiness that he had long accepted would never be his.

Therefore, he intended to go slow. To take his time, as much for Hope’s sake as his own. To show her everything that she had become to him, and to commit to memory her every sigh, every gesture, and every way that she would touch him. How they would touch one another. He would cherish Hope as she deserved---and keep golden the memories they made together as precious comfort against the inevitable remorse that would fill him, for the suffering and losses that he could not prevent in the final conflict that was to come.

As they began, Hope had asked for more light, enough to see him better by, and Stephen had gladly obliged, pleased that it only took a simple thought and the mere pass of his fingers towards the lamp to do so---for he could not bear to part from her for even a moment now.

She smiled up at him, surely reading the keen desire written on his face. Hope placed gentle fingertips on his cheek again and traced his lips with her thumb, so tenderly that he closed his eyes, melting into the warmth that was ever her gift to him. Stephen sighed his relief, freed of the weight of his burdens as he had honestly never thought possible, and kissed her thumb before lowering his mouth to hers. He felt her smile give way as he brushed his bottom lip against her own, nudging her lips to part. She hummed agreeably as he swept his tongue into her mouth, and then slid her other hand into his hair.

They dwelt in that kiss for many uncounted heartbeats, while Hope stroked his face and his neck on the way to slip her hand beneath his tee shirt, onto his shoulder. That stunned him a moment, having gone the equivalent of a score and more of lifetimes bereft of _any_ skin on skin contact, let alone the soft, loving touch of a woman. Stephen moaned into her mouth without meaning to, moving her to break from the depth of their kiss. “Is this alright,” she asked breathlessly, so that he nodded and whispered back, “It’s perfect honey…so very perfect.” He smoothed his lips across her cheek, then added against her skin, “And what I’ve been needing for…forever…”

Her breath hitched, and he knew without having to see, that her eyes had filled with tears on his account. “It’s alright, Hope…I _swear_ it is…” he promised as he nuzzled his way to her ear, “That it’s _your_ touch is the sweetest consolation I could ever hope for.”

**“** Oh my dear,” she husked, laying her palm on the nape of his neck and sinking her head deeper into her pillow, laying her throat bare to him, “My dear, brave, beautiful Stephen…I’d gladly go with you if I could. Without hesitation. No matter the cost, just so you wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.” Then he was kissing her throat, painting her flesh with hot, desperate kisses, his need for soul-to-soul connection with her too strong to be denied.

How tender was the hollow of her throat, how precious to him the scent of her skin, experienced now as never before; how perfect the play of her hands in his hair and upon his back! Hope’s body snuggly beneath his, so soft and eager and willing; the way she clung to him pure affirmation that she not only wanted him, but _needed_ him as badly as he did her.

She moaned for him when he swept one hand up from the curve of her hip onto her waist, and then cupped it upon the fabric that covered the full swell of her breast. “Oh gawd…yes…” she murmured against his hair “…please…oh, Stephen, please…don’t stop…I’ve been aching for you to touch me this way for so long…wondering why you…you’ve been holding back…”

Stephen hummed against the sweet haven of her skin, “I know, baby…I know. I’ve been a damn fool…” Hope tasted of all the sweet comfort that he had been craving in the depths of his soul, since the moment he had finally accepted that his hands were ruined beyond any hope of repair. “We could have had this…and so much more…”

She was panting softly, nodding her head, and the desperation in her voice matched the same within his chest. Within his very soul. “Then don’t hold back a thing now, Stephen,” she begged him, “Please…please put your beautiful…your so, _so_ beautiful hands…all…all over me…” Hope trailed off with a long sigh.

That she had _always_ found his hands beautiful despite his ugly scars—and that she had used her vision and artistry to literally illustrate that for him—made Stephen ache all the more to please her with his touch.

“As you wish, honey,” he chuckled softly, relishing the small surprise he had in store for her. Stephen closed his eyes and focused for a few moments, and was rewarded by both Hope’s surprised, appreciative gasp, and the divine heat of her supple flesh cupped firmly in his palm, as the tee shirt he had lent her to sleep in dematerialized.

“Mmmmmmm,” she purred, arching up into his touch, compelling him to rub the pad of his thumb against the stiffened nub of her nipple. “You _are_ the magic man,” she exclaimed softly against his ear, lightly tugging his lobe between her teeth, “And now I want _every_ trick you’ve got to show me.”

Stephen let his face hover above hers, drinking in the bare desire in her eyes and the ripeness of her lips, already lusciously swollen from the passion of his kisses. He feinted as though to take her lips once more, then pulled away a moment, enjoying the tease and her quiet huff of frustration, until she pulled him to her by the back of his neck, demanding the satisfaction he had denied her.

“Please don’t tease me so—I swear my heart beats now just for you, Stephen…and that nothing… _nothing_ …exists outside this room…or beyond this time.” Her lips so soft and full of promise, commanded him, “It’s _our_ time at last, and I need you to love me and fill me as no man has ever done for me before…”

"That and more, baby," he promised before sealing that pledge with a deep, enduring kiss.

Hope's eager hands soon found her way beneath his tee shirt, roaming across his torso, her fingertips and palms sparking the flesh of his back at each point of contact, so that the thrill of it spread like a low electric current down his spine. "Make this gone, too," came her husky plea, "Please...I need to feel your skin on mine..." In a single breath--and with barely a thought--he magicked his shirt away, groaning his satisfaction at the sudden sensation of her bare breasts pressed to his naked chest, while Hope gave over a long, blissful purr to finally feel him, flesh on fllesh.

Enrapt in both the dear scent and the vital heat of her skin, Stephen traced his lips to the tender hollow of her throat, along her collarbone, and then in a path down the center of her chest. Hope arched her back enough to meet his questing hands, and he cupped her breasts while she tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him on. He teased her skin with moist kisses, rolling her palms against her nipples, loving every second of her response to the touch of his ruined hands. And when he tasted her with the tip of his tongue and drew one succulent bud into his mouth, Hope moaned long and deep, while beginning to writhe beneath him.

She slid her arms under his, holding onto him tightly, her hands sure of purpose as she caressed her way down to the small of his back. Hope gasped his name when he answered by drifting one hand down and slipping just his fingertips beneath the waistband of her panties. "More, darling...please," was her silken entreaty, "I've been needing you so very much, Stephen..."

"Yes...yes, baby...whatever you want, whatever you need..." His voice cracked with his own exquisite need, before he shifted his body enough to dive it for a further taste of her swollen lips. She greeted the thrust of his tongue eagerly, drawing it deep into her mouth as she suckled with a insistence that was the precursor to the even more divine penetration which each longed to share.

Stephen's blood beat hard with lust and want, his body begging him to sink his full, hardened length into Hope's willing heat with no further delay. But his mind and heart insisted on more than just that fulfillment; he wanted...needed...to show her how precious she had become to him. And how very much he treasured that she had, in her sweet, quiet way, already given him the strength to complete the most dread task of his life.

Forcing himself from the depth of her kiss, he rolled onto his side. Hope mewled softly as she turned into him, nuzzling his shoulder, "Hmmm...don't stop now, Stephen...please..."

He was swfit to urge her onto her back again. "I have no intention of stopping, baby," he assured her, his lips pressed to her temple whille he breathed deep the lovely scent of her hair, "But I just wanna touch you so badly right now..." Stephen closed his eyes, concentrating on the fingers of his right hand, casting a silent spell to tame the ever-present ache, while also seeking to enhance their sensitivity. The familiar warmth from that unique incantation--one he normally used only when he needed unimpaired use of his hands for some dire purpose--spread from his fingertips downward and then centered itself in his right palm. 

Satisfied with that small, focused success, he dragged the backs of his fingers along her breast bone, relishing her delighted gasp when he laid his palm upon her navel and stretched his fingers along her bikini line.

Hope swallowed hard and then her mouth fell open as she softly acquiesed. Stephen felt he couldn't take his eyes off her--her breathing deepening as his fingers reached towards their goal, the quiet sounds he drew from her, the drowsy, hypnotic look in her eyes. The way she raised her head as she sought his lips, then boldly grazed them with her teeth.

"I've got you, baby," he whispered against her lips, finally tucking two fingers iside her panties, thus stirring her to tilt into his touch. Gently, patiently--despite his growing greed to go fast--Stephen slid his fingers into the soft, auburn curls that covered her sex. Hope nodded against him, moaning for him, moaning for more, letting her bent knee fall to the side to allow him to fully explore her.

She whimpered softly as he rested his fingers against her slit, and then teased them along its length and back again. Stephen had always taken great satisfaction in such foreplay, confident of the skill of his hands in this, as in all things; exploring his lover's secret flesh, learning each woman's most sensitive spots, finding that scrumptious trigger and deftly delivering waves of dizzying pleasure. But that was a whole other life ago, and he was now a man changed for the better. For the first time since his callow youth, his heart now guided his play, his need not prideful or bent on his own eventual gratification, but only centered on giving his woman unselfish pleasure.

And how soft and beautiful she was, blossoming beneath his hand, meeting his intimate strokes with slow, deep rolls of her hips! Drawing long, deep breaths while she exposed her neck to him for love bites which he couldn't resist delivering--all of her being focused on where and how he touched her. Groaning his name, telling him how good it was, as he worked her ever closer to her climax--only to relent and delay the inevitable for a time, and then return to play with her some more.

Stephen was mesmerized by Hope's every detail, enthralled by the scent of her arousal and by the slickness that coated his fingertips whenever he dipped them into her opening. Realizing that later he would surely sample it; the very decadent idea of tasting her as she came causing him to grind his erection hard and repeatedly against her hip.

"Stephen...please," she panted, surely reacting to the feel of his hardness against her, "I need...you...inside me..."

"Ssssssssh," he coaxed her, stroking her wet folds with heightened urgency, while rubbing firm, insistent circles upon her engorged clitoris, "I know, baby...and I do too...you can't imagine how much I do..."

She groaned and sunk her fingers into his bicep, thrusting herself against his fingers, clearly on the verge of peaking. "Just a little more, baby," he swore to her, sounding desperate to his own ears. "You're so perfect, Hope...and so beautiful...and I _need_ to see you, baby...to please you like _this_...with my hands...and watch you come...and hear you cry my name..." 

Stephen trailed off as she bucked hard beneath his hand, seeking fulfillment of his play with her. With her moans of pleasure ever mounting, he buried the full length of two fingers inside her, compelling her to orgasm powerfully--and filling his heart with joy as she cried out his name, exactly as he'd desired.

He watched her ride the after waves, felt her muscle contractions slow and fade around his fingers, and kissed her brow several times, as her body relaxed and settled softly against his. Hope's eyes fluttered open, and she licked her lips before giving him a quiet smile. "Damn," she murmured, cupping his cheek in her hand, "That was...that was _so_ worth waiting for..." She pulled his face close, treating his lips to her gentlest kisses, then whispered lovingly, "I always knew your touch would be magic, darling...even before I knew you were a magic man."

Stephen hummed happily as he brushed his nose against hers, and she continued, "But whatever are we going to do for _you_ , my darling?" She slowly ran her hand along his side and gripped his hip, while wiggling her own hip against his groin. A flash of renewed heat and need bloomed in his shaft and balls. 

Hope slid her hand between their bodies, and through his open fly, running her fingers onto his erection; her fingertips were blessedly cool upon his heated flesh, while she scattered open-mouthed kisses on his throat, and then told him, "You just made me want you even more, Stephen." The way his name lingered on her tongue made him weak inside. "And I _still_ need you to fill me." He inhaled sharply when she encircled his cock in her palm, thrusting himself into her clever hand. "Now, darling," she nearly growled, "Fill me _now_..."

_to be continued_


End file.
